


Through Chaos

by MereWhispers



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: (which does get resolved actually), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Post-Deathly Hallows, Post-Deathly Hallows AU, Sass, Sassy Harry, Sassy Pansy, The Slytherins have joined the Order, UST, Unresolved Sexual Tension, that's about it.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-15
Updated: 2016-10-15
Packaged: 2018-08-22 12:59:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8286715
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MereWhispers/pseuds/MereWhispers
Summary: Thunderstorms take away the opportunity of retiring to the safehouse Pansy considers her semi-residence, from an injured Pansy. Stuck in the safest safehouse of the Order, Pansy's chaotic—and yet monotonous—survival takes an unexpected turn.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I _love_ Hansy, but this my very first attempt at writing them. I have the Mods of this fest to thank, for allotting this wonderful prompt to me. I've been thoroughly inspired to write more on them, through this. That said, this _is_ , really, my first attempt, and so the characterization may not be as up to the mark as Harry and Pansy deserve. Apologies in advance!
> 
> Then, this is set after Deathly Hallows, in an AU continuation of the war. Pansy's on the side of light, and Harry's still alive—obviously. And Voldemort’s well and good, too. Or, well and _bad_ , if you will. And then there's a massive amount of headcanon involved—straight from Pansy's head.
> 
> Rest, thanks to my beta (J!) for literally _polishing_ the messed-up tale I’d come up with. She’s done a lot of work on this; given me a _really_ in-depth review of the language I’d used. Thank you!

Pansy hisses in pain as the gash on her left shoulder stings with the impact of Apparition.

“ _Lestrange_ ,” she grunts, clasping a hand over the wound that is bleeding enough to wet the _entire sleeve_ of the shirt she's wearing — and yes, she _borrowed_ it from Ginny Weasley; Pansy doesn't own _shirts_. “You non-trusting, _disgusting_ , vile mother- _fucker_!”

A small voice in her head reminds her that the sordid Death-Eater had, actually, been _correct_ in not buying her grovelling about where her actual loyalties lay. Oh, well. Luck wasn't on her side, then. But he _is_ a disgusting, vile _mother-fucker_ , alright. And anyway, how was she supposed to predict that Bellatrix Lestrange's husband will turn out intellectual enough to see through her façade? No one has really ever been able to. Blaise's mum hasn't really ever been able to! And, moreover, Draco had told them all about how he'd been able to pull that up once, about three years ago, when the forces had been fighting off on the Hogwarts grounds. 

She should have believed Boy Wonder when he'd interrupted Draco's story with a snort and, ‘you're _really_ gonna terminate my role in saving your arse that once, from this tale, Malfoy?' she realizes. That, or Voldemort is training his force extensively.

Sighing, she grips her wand firmly in her left — and _non-dominant_ — hand and lets a begrudging note of thanks to that black-haired, black-skinned, half-blooded Gryffindor — _Dean Thomas_ — slip into her tired, battered, _frustrated_ brain. He'd played Boy Wonder in her replication of Draco's foolish ploy, and Pansy'd escaped the scene with merely a _parting gift_ from Lestrange. And she _had_ been _thankful_ , for real, then. Lestrange was aiming for nothing less than a kill, she knows; his lunatic better—or _worse_ , maybe?—half rubbing off on him, probably.

Now, though, it hurts like _shit_ , and Pansy reflects whether Apparating away from the Battlefield had _really_ been a genius choice to make. For all intents and purposes, she could've _Splinched_ herself and landed in a _much worse_ shape than she has.

But that was before she'd Apparated; decisions made, now she's half-sitting, half-drooping next to a couch, that stinks _badly_ of fungi; decaying, moist wood; that Muggle nuisance called _tobacco_ that Prude-Extraordinaire, _Granger_ , preaches _against_ whenever Daphne and Theo smuggle some in; and all of this filthy foulness is topped with that _choking stench_ of smoke which is continually absorbed into the covers from the fireplace — and she's sporting merely a _cut on her shoulder_. She grimaces and hastily pushes away from the piece of furniture when she tries to take a cleansing breath. Because, damn it all, the 'cleansing breath' is going to _pollute_ her respiratory tract instead of _cleansing_ it!

And she can bloody _hear_ the howls of that damned blazing thunderstorm out there, and she can't even _leave_ and go off to her _own_ permanent residence. Because the Floo connections have been cut off for the past three years, and if she attempts to Apparate _one more time_ , she's going to bloody well _lose_ her arm!

She inhales through her clenched teeth as she pulls her feet from beneath her thighs, rearranging them to sit back on her lower legs. Then she is frowning fiercely as she grips the armrest of that sodden, freaking couch with her right hand—letting her wound leak rivulets of blood down the length of her arm—and launches herself into a standing position.

Then she groans. _Aloud_. “Salazar's bloody _arse_ , this shit _hurts_!”

She clenches her eyes shut, and tries to focus on thoughts of those fresh, warm, sunny days — which have _nothing_ to do with the moist atmosphere of this room she's landed in, or the blasting chill of that freaking _rain_ , and the associated storm which is fucking _raging_ outside — back in the gardens at the Parkinson family estate, where she and Draco used to loiter about with hands entwined. That had been after their Fourth Year, as she recalls, when they'd come back after spending some _real_ quality time back at Hogwarts — what with the Yule Ball and festivities. She'd _really_ thought that they were going to last after that. They were grown-ups — him _already_ fifteen, and her coming around in the next two months — after all, and had been at least a _bit_ logical while getting together.

Pansy blearily cracks open her eyelids. _Draco_ isn't what she'd wanted to think of, but — oh, well.

She sighs. It's not that she _isn't_ over him. It has been _three_ , bleeding years ever since that supposedly _final_ battle at the school grounds; since that _snake_ — Nagini — escaped from the grasp of the Order, that is, rendering their fight against _Voldemort_ himself, quite useless. And those times with Draco had been before their _Fifth Year_ — that is _two more_ orbits of Earth. She can't even _begin_ to make a list of all that has happened since then.

So, it's like, _yes_ , she _has_ moved on. In a way. She'd have to be freaking _Severus Snape_ in love with–with _Potter's mum_ — she forgets her name — to _not_ have. But, that's not what this is about. She sees people romancing all around here at the Order, and her heart _weeps_. She is not _jealous_ , per se; she just _envies them_.

A door creaking open somewhere deep in the house jolts her back to present. She realises that she has got a bitter taste in her mouth, and swallows it away. 

There's nothing to be _scared_ about the sound—no reason to be wary of someone probably loitering about this house while the lot of them have gone battling, though. This one is a very well-guarded safe house that the Fidelius Charm has been properly cast on. Well, it makes sense because _this_ is the one that houses the Boy Who's Still Alive. And as an intensified safety measure, when the residents of this safe house go off for a mission, they have a rule of leaving a person behind. 

This person must have sensed her magical signature passing through the semi-permeable apparition wards. And so she pushes her shoulders back, ready to defend herself if they decide to mock at her reason for fleeing the fight. She _does_ need medical attention and any taunts can go _fuck themselves_ for all she cares.

“Who's there?” a voice echoes from down the corridor that connects the dining room to living room she's in. “Tonks, is that you?”

Pansy scowls. They left _him_ back, _again_? Sure he's a precious gem — their _only_ hope if they aim on defeating Voldemort, so to say — but _this_ is _unfair_ , to be honest.

The ambush they'd carried out, last week, had been sans Harry Potter, _too_! He didn't have to be held back from battling a troop headed by _Rabastan Lestrange_ , at least. They didn’t _know_ that his brother would go ballistic, did they? Now that she thinks of it, though, Pansy is torn between appreciating Tonks' thoughtful leadership, and being jealous of Potter because _he_ didn't fall in the way of _Rudolphus Lestrange's_ curse.

Then, the next moment, she's _furious_. First, the sod doesn't freaking _go_ to the battle, then he has the audacity to hope that they'd be done in an _hour_?

Pansy marches into the corridor, hissing a _Lumos_ as she points her wand at Potter's face. “No,” she snarls, “it isn't _her_ , Potter. You see, the battles we indulge in — especially the ones that _you're_ , left _out_ of — don't really wind up in an _hour_ ,” she spits, tauntingly.

He is squinting, trying to lean back from the blob of light that she's pushed right into his nose. “ _Parkinson_?” he croaks, tilting his head this way and that to glance at her face from around the wand light. “Is it you?”

She sniffs, haughtily, pulling her wand away from his face. “ _Lumos Maxima_.”

Potter blinks, taking a step away as his forehead crinkles with the sudden illumination enveloping the corridor. “What on _earth_ —” he sputters, taking another step back as his eyes rake over her, widening with every little displacement of his gaze. “Parkinson… you… th–this is—” He shakes his head, looking at her face again with a frown. “What _happened_?”

She rolls her eyes, though she has to grind her teeth to hold back the wince of pain that's trying to push its way out. “Your concern is _really_ flattering, Potter,” she snorts after a moment, and watches his lips purse, thinning into a line as his expressions transform from that slight shock-slight worry mix to outright irritation, but she can't care less. “ _Now_ , what? Are you going to _lift me up_ —all the way to the infirmary?” she sneers.

Potter narrows his eyes so much that she can barely make out the distinct vertical strips of white and another dark colour that she can't catch in the dim light that has enveloped them—but knows, from memory, is _green_ ; "he's got his mother's eyes,” is a statement as famous as Harry Potter himself—from the slit that his eyelids have thinned his eyes to. “With _pleasure_ ,” he purrs in fake-sweetness.

Before Pansy can even _blink_ , let alone finish the gasp in reaction to his response, and her feet are already off the ground, followed by her legs — then her waist is tilting in a horizontal stance, and she can't speak, or think, or even _breathe_ through the blood pounding in her ears, because _Potter_ has—

Wait.

She blinks twice. Then, three times. And, surely, she can't feel the pressure — warmth, even — of his arms and body that _must be_ there, seeing how he's held her—

She frowns as she hears him snicker, and sharply glances to her left where the git is… _standing away_?

She gapes, changing the angle of her head as she tries to get a better look. Then his wand catches her eye and she groans, _again_.

“What the _fuck_ , Potter? Why are you _levitating_ me!?” she shrieks.

Potter smirks smugly, shrugging a shoulder. “You asked for it.”

“Bloody _hell_ , Potter, put me _down_!” Her voice is taking on a shrill pitch, and this _bastard_ is _still_ bloody _grinning_ at her expense!

“ _Silencio_.”

She sputters, mouthing everything that he's shushed with his spell. Then he curtseys, and begins to walk down the corridor, Pansy's levitated self in tow.

They cross the dining room in silence. Well, not that she _can_ speak, anyway. Nonetheless, she is preoccupied in pushing her right palm against the gaping wound that has lost _so_ much blood that she's in _immediate_ need of a blood replenishing potion.

Potter is then leading them towards the secluded corner of the room where, as she knows, a staircase leads down to the basement. He punches at the switchboard on the wall, next to the top-most stair, and the entire flight of stairs brightens by the glow of a Muggle incandescent ‘bulb'. For the life of her, she doesn't _know_ what those things are.

He walks up to her, rotating her body to align the flat of her soles with the ground before casting a silent _Finite Incantatum_. She breathes out as her feet touch solid ground again.

Then she, experimentally, clears her throat, which makes him stop at the sound and look over his shoulder.

Her eyes narrow. How _dare_ he manhandle her like that? She inhales deeply, preparing her lungs for the verbal abuse that she's about to bathe him in—

“Don't,” he commands, sternly. And she… well, _doesn't_. She is too _astounded_ , actually, to react. “Say a _word_ , Parkinson, and I'm silencing you again.”

She hesitates, as she _really_ doesn't want to test her luck with a pissed off Potter; it seems that her hesitation is all the inspiration he needs to turn back around and start climbing down the staircase. Numb from the pain, she falls in step after him.

The staircase is _so_ damn _ancient_ that the sound of their footsteps freaking _ricochet_! Not that she's spooked out, or something. She has been fighting in a damn war, and—oh, she has a fucking _wounded shoulder_ to worry about! Of course, she isn't afraid of a children's book _ghoul_ popping out from the tattered wood of the stairs her belle-flats are tapping lightly against.

Speaking of, she takes a closer look at the _really_ decaying teak that makes up the floor the two of them are walking on. She knows this had been a Muggle residence before they made it a safe house, but, for _Salazar's sake_ , it has been _fifteen months_ since this place was discovered! A few repairing charms won't have been _that_ difficult, would they have?

This _shitload_ of _absolutely_ -good-for- _nothing_ people—well, maybe good for nothing except fighting off Death Eaters—

“Parkinson?”

She jumps as she is rather _ruthlessly_ pulled out of her inner monologue. Potter is frowning at her, and—

They've reached the basement.

She scowls at him, clutching at her wound, as she shoves into his upper arm with her uninjured shoulder — because, well, she can't quite _reach_ up to shove into _his_ shoulder — and walks past him in search of the door to the Infirmary.

He snorts after her, but she ignores him. She's too busy holding her breath against this _rotten_ part of the otherwise almost _impeccable_ safe house. She actually _hates_ the basement; In her opinion, it's a _damp place_ , almost as cold as the Slytherin dungeons back at Hogwarts, and even _stinks_ at times.

The only merit she can see right now, though, is that the _Infirmary_ is kept really clean and devoid of any odours, whatsoever. At least she wouldn't have to clip her nose up while the only other person in this house, albeit a _really_ dumb git, heals her injury.

Her wounded arm bears her wand which is not _quite_ shaking by the effort. Only a _little_. At least she can _see_ where she's going—

“You've missed the target, captain,” that dumb git drawls in a smug voice from a few feet behind her.

—or maybe she _can't_?

Her scowl intensifies. Turning on her heels, she locates him pointing his wand-light at a placard pasted on the wall above a surprisingly _unscathed_ door, which reads, clear as day, ‘INFIRMARY'.

She grunts under her breath and walks back to him, passing four other rooms on her way. Is she _actually_ that ignorant? Perhaps.

She taps her feet, mostly to just annoy the hell out of him, while he says some incantation, in _Latin_ , to unlock the door.

“Patience, princess,” he murmurs under his breath, fumbling with the Muggle lock and key.

“Arsehole,” she hisses back, keeping it under _her_ breath.

He shoots her an amused look, and then gives the door an inward jerk. “Something you'd like to _say_?” He makes a show of examining his wand, and she grits her teeth.

She has her own wand, yes, but isn't foolish enough to believe that she can beat his reflexes. He has had freaking _Voldemort_ residing in his head for _years_. He's better experienced, without second thoughts., even if she _wasn't_ sporting this injury that has made her wand- handling clumsy.

She doesn't ponder over that, though, and gives him a sugary smile instead. “I said, what a _gentleman_ you are, Mister Potter. Thank you!” His lips pursed and his eyes narrowed, he walks into the room, while she smirks after him.

“Alright,” he announces, flicking his wand to turn on the Muggle lighting system in the room. “Sit your arse on one of these beds, while I search for Essence of Dittany, around here,” he says, scanning the shelves in room for the potion, probably.

Is this guy even for _real_? 

“Can I say something?” she questions, fake-civilly.

“Uh-huh,” he absent-mindedly murmurs, sticking his head into a cupboard.

She finally concludes that this particular room has, in fact, been _repaired_ if not _fully renovated_ , given how prim and proper even the bedside tables are. “You're a _wizard_ ,” she, then, says, patronizingly. He gives her an irritated look. She shrugs, biting the inside of her cheek to hold back laughter. “And… you _know_ how to cast an _Accio_.”

His eyes widen and cheeks colourize, before he looks away with an awkwardly cleared throat, which makes her break out into unladylike peals of laughter.

“ _Accio_ Dittany,” he says, pointing his wand at the cupboard. There's a faint cluttering of glass bottles knocking lightly into each other as they shake, seconds before Essence of Dittany lands neatly in his open palm. “Good.”

Pansy sighs.

He gives her another sharp glare. “ _What_?” he growls.

“Oh, nothing.” She waves off a dismissive hand. “I'm tired, is all." She lets out a fake yawn, which would flare his temper, without a doubt.

He rolls his eyes, however, and points to a bed. She _just_ holds herself back from sticking her tongue out at him, and complies.

But, as she drops her bum into the plush mattress, panic seizes her. The place that Rudolphus Lestrange has torn open runs from the left outer edge of her collarbone, and goes all the way around her shoulder to end _right_ above the dip of her armpit. She stiffens. She isn't wearing a chemise, and she's _so not_ planning to sit in her _bra_ before _Harry_ buggering _Potter_!

He probably notices her wary glances at his approaching figure because his scowl deepens. “I'm here to _heal_ you, Parkinson. Don't give me those suspicious glances,” he comments, pulling up a mediwizard stool to settle next to her.

She gulps, then, feeling _nervous_ for the _first time ever_ in Harry Potter's presence.

His face relaxes as he busies himself with uncapping the Dittany, while she fumbles with her wand, trying to recall if there's some spell to put on a spaghetti top between two layers of one's clothing. She bites back a whimper. Then, summoning all of her courage, looks back at him, and clears her throat.

He clicks his tongue. “Not comfortable _enough_ , princess?” he mocks her, sarcastically.

She is agitated, _really_ agitated, and she blames her next action on that. _Completely_. “Listen up, _Saint Potter_ ,” she snaps, which causes him to look at her with hiked eyebrows, clearly surprised. “You may enjoy this, getting–getting some sick, sadistic _fun_ out of it—but _I_ , clearly, am not thrilled about sitting here in my freaking _push-up_ , giving you a _show_ , while you bloody seal my _wound_!”

His mouth falls open and eyes immediately — probably _involuntarily_ — drop to her chest. She feels her cheeks heating up as his gaze lingers. “What?” he squeaks in a feeble voice, before looking up into _her_ eyes, wearing a rather apprehensive expression.

She clears her throat again, a frown marring her forehead as she looks everywhere but at him. “I, uh… I didn't mean to–I didn't mean it to come out like… _that_ ,” she explains with a grimace.

“No,” he shakes his head, dazedly looking at her. “Did you _really_ go into the battlefield wearing a _push-up_ bra?”

She gasps, looking at his snickering face in pure _outrage_. “You–you son of a… _Harry_ fucking _Potter_ , you take that _back_!” she screeches, and got up, aiming her wand at him while he limps out of her range, obviously not wanting to get physically harmed by her. “You take that back, _now_!”

He clutches his waist, doubling over as he gasps for air. “ _Jesus_ , this is _hilarious_!” he breathes out. “Who were–who were you trying to _impress_ , Parkinson? _Rabastan_?” He bursts into another laughing fit, while her cheeks freaking _burn_.

Because, not _all_ of it is embarrassment, now.

She clenches her teeth hard, preparing for the _really_ cheap blow she is about to deliver, that will _surely_ shut him up for the remainder of the evening. “ _Oh_?” she says, airily. “Says the boy who got _dumped_ by a _Weasley_. Yeah, that's _rich_.”

As she'd known it would, all the laughter dies in his throat. His face straightens for a moment before his lips curl into the sneer that she has come to get _really_ well acquainted with, over the years. “Don't _go_ there, Parkinson,” he bellows, and she _just_ holds herself from flinching back by the vigour of it. “It was _your_ slut of a best friend who ruined our relationship,” he spits, hitting home.

Pansy hops off the bed, keeping her wand firmly in her uninjured hand as she gnashes her teeth. Her eyes flare in fury. “Don't say a _word_ against _Blaise_ , Potter,” she hisses, “when you know _shit_ about what he's made of. You won't understand _half_ the amount of _love_ he has for that girl, for Merlin knows _what_ awful reason! And—”

“ _And_ ,” he cuts her off, taking a furious step in her direction, “ _this_ is rich coming from the girl who got dumped by a _Malfoy_ ,” he snarls.

She scowls, chucking off the mental image of herself and Draco roaming about the grounds in Parkinson estates, back in their mid-teens. “Yeah? And it wasn't _your_ best friend who wooed him away, huh?”

“Oh, _no_ , Parkinson, it _wasn't_.” He laughs, coldly. “Hermione would never stoop that low. Because she'd _never_ hurt us! And you have _no idea_ how _hard_ it has been for Ron to get over—”

“Has it?” she scoffs. “Because from what _I_ know, that Patil girl, the one from Ravenclaw, has been taking _good_ care of him, hasn't she?”

“ _What_?” he utters in disbelief, before shaking in head in what she can assume is _disappointment_ from the Boy Who Is Going To Save Their World. “Padma is–they're _friends_ , Parkinson. Never heard of ‘friendship', have you? It's a foreign concept in Slytherin, I know, so, _maybe_ —”

“ _Enough_!” she finally screams. And — _shit_ — is her voice _cracking_? Damn, she doesn't want to _break down_ before this class-A dunce, but, _hell_ , all his blows are hitting _home_! “You–you think we _don't know_ what _friendship_ is?” she hisses, jabbing an accusatory finger into his chest — not really sure who's moved, and _when_ , to cover the distance between them. “Right, that _should be_ true, shouldn't it? I mean, that _is_ why we — me, Blaise, Theo, Daphne and her _little sister_ — we _supported_ Draco and freaking _followed_ him into–into this _death trap_ , the side of the _good people_ in this war, huh?”

Potter watches her with a curious look on his face, his mouth opening and closing while he keeps shaking his head at intervals. Pansy _knows_ what he’s looking at. She had feared he would get to, tonight, and she had been right. Now, though, she simply wipes those treacherous tears away from her cheeks.

“Malfoy?” Potter mumbles, then. “You all—it was _him_ who instigated your changing sides?”

Pansy conveniently ignores him, because she _isn't_ fucking _done_ yet! “You think we're _inhumane_ , don't you? Us—the _Slytherins_ ,” she sneers, and feels _really, viciously happy_ when he grimaces. “We don't have morals, don't have _emotions_ , yeah? You're _absolutely correct_ , Potter!” She lets out a fake gasp, clutching at her chest in faux surprise. “Because, come on, Slytherins always have a _scheme_ , eh? A bloody _game plan_ for every hell of a thing we do! Narcissa Malfoy had a _plot_ in her head when she persuaded Draco to join this Order… There is some _trick_ behind Draco falling in love with Granger and Blaise falling for your on-again, off-again girlfriend! And there's _certainly_ something _devious_ involved in my having a conversation with the–the _Chosen One_ , because that is how Slytherins _work_ , isn't it?” she is yelling, she is aware, but that isn't quite soothing her boiling rage. And the way Potter is _still_ fixed on a grimace, simply _looking_ at her, is _not_ helping at all. “What?” she snaps. “Don't _lie_ , Potter, I _know_ that's what you freaking _think_!”

She is breathing _really_ hard as she slumps down onto the mattress. Potter sighs, sounding weary. Then he looks away, pursing his lips before sighing again and letting his face drop into proper resignation. “I… Not _all_ of what you said is true, okay?” he begins, his voice small in comparison to her outburst. “You–you people have _been_ ruthless, Parkinson, _all your life_! Can you _really_ blame us for being wary?”

He is trying to calm her down, she notices. But she shakes her head. “We both know that it isn't about _all our life_ , Potter,” she says quietly, yet confidently, because she knows she is right. “This–this lack of faith on your people's side? This has materialized out of Draco's Dark Mark, and…” She pauses, faltering. Then she takes a breath and meets his expectant, though hesitant gaze. “And a seventeen-year old girl not hesitating before asking for the death of a fellow seventeen-year old boy for her _own_ life's sake,” she finishes, revelling in the way his eyes widen.

“No, no,” he mutters, blinking rapidly. “That–that… _incident_ ,” he winces at the noun he used, “isn't what _all_ of this animosity's about…” He frowns, pausing uncertainly as he looks away again.

She scoffs. “No? Well, then maybe it is what _most_ of this _animosity_ 's about?” She rolls her eyes when he begins to shake his head. “Oh, save it, Potter. Everyone knows how McGonagall is _still_ holding grudges against me for that little… _incident_.” She raises her brows, pointedly. “And even _you_ can't deny that it gives you — if not _all_ , as you said — then _really a lot_ of reason to hate me.”

His lips twist. “I don't need a _reason_ to hate you, Parkinson.”

She smirks. “Oh? Feelings mutual, then. Neither do I.”

“Oh, I know all about that,” he says, something serious flashing behind his teasing exterior. “You've got _every right_ to be envious. What _do_ you have that I don't huh? Just a _gigantic_ mansion to call your _own_ , endless Galleons in your Gringotts vault,” he continues sarcastically while ticking off his fingers, “all sorts of tricks up your sleeve to woo boys, loving parents who become _prouder_ as you get more spoilt—” Though he has begun to sound bitter, by this point, she tunes the rest of his rant out.

He has hit home _again_. She briefly wonders if he has to try at _all_ —if pricking her wounds _really_ comes naturally to him.

Then she shuts her eyes, biting hard on her lower lip to prevent those words from penetrating her walls.

… _loving parents who become prouder as you get more spoilt_ …

… _loving parents_ …

Loving parents.

She swallows past the enormous lump residing in her throat. “You think you had it the _worst_ , don't you, Potter?” she asks, her voice hoarse from the effort of keeping her emotions in check.

He stops his rant, though she doesn't open her eyes to read his face. Then he sighs. “Why?” he barks, tartly. “Do you have perhaps _other opinions_?” 

She opens her eyes to fix her gaze on her hands. One of them is bloodied — and she realizes with a start that the ache in her shoulder has reduced to merely a dull throbbing in the wake of this verbal sparring.

“Well?” he prods.

“My mother was a Death Eater,” she begins, ignoring the echoing gasp the Gryffindor lets out, who would never understnd what it has been like to be on her side. “And a woman that Vol–that _You-Know-Who_ ,” she corrects, remembering the taboo just in time, “had kept for himself — to be of service whenever he needed her to be. His wh– _whore_ if you will,” she adds in barely a whisper. He inhales sharply, the sound of his dropping onto the opposite bed echoing in the silent Infirmary.

“And–and he had some sort of… _dark potion_ administered into her, that prevented her from ageing. She was, essentially, _twenty years old_ all her life.” She bites her lip again, reflecting how she is _herself_ of that age, now. “My father had met her by chance at some dinner party held at one of the richer pure-blood families, and fell in love with her. She didn't, though.” She frowns, as vibrant images of her mother's diary flash through her mind. “But, Caleb Parkinson was a _very_ persuasive man back then. He followed her around, _everywhere_ she went. She had no option at the end, but telling him about her… _connections_ ,” she spits, “with You-Know-Who. Father wasn't bothered by any of it, however. He promised her that he'd free her from that crazy wizard's clutches, and asked her to marry him. She was moved. Though, she didn't really _love_ him, but she still agreed to marry him.” 

She takes a breath before she continuing.  
“Then she got pregnant. Not that it was a bother, really, because she was away from You-Know-Who's radar, as it is. But that delayed their wedding, anyhow. She wanted her baby to be safely out of the way before she did something drastic with her life...” Pansy sniffles as her eyes brim. “They waited till–till I was born — which was a week before _you_ were, by the way,” she adds, causing his frown to dissipate as his brows shoot up. “Then, they got married. Just the next day.” 

Pansy sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose as she realizes that the wedding had been the very last entry in her mother's diary. “And then she was killed,” she finishes flatly.

Potter shoots to his feet, his brows fiercely furrowed. “ _What_? Your–your mother was… _killed_?” he asks in disbelief.

“That's what I _said_ , isn't it?” she snaps, glaring at his towering form.

“No… I mean _yes_ , just that I never–you _don't have a mother_?” he exclaims as if the concept is too foreign for him.

Pansy blinks at the irony. One would expect _Harry Potter_ to be less surprised by the fact that a person has grown up to their twenty years of age _without_ a parent — seeing as how _he_ has without _any_!

“It isn't _her_ that I mourn, though,” she says, instead. “All I've ever known about her has come from her journal. Or my father's drunken recollections.”

She stares as he takes a step back to settle on the bed again.

“You don't know how _lucky_ you are, Potter, that you do not _know_ who your parents were,” she tells him. “I have seen my father die— _every day_. I've seen him drown himself in alcohol — drown himself in the misery that You-Know-Who's gifted him with.”

He shakes his head. “Not sure if I agree—”

“Oh, but you _do_ ,” she corrects him with a knowing smile. He looks strangely at her lips and she suddenly remembers that they both don't trade _smiles_ ; so she purses her lips into a line. “Tell me, honestly, whom do you _really_ miss the most? Sirius Black? Dumbledore? Moody? Even _Cedric Diggory_? Or, your parents?”

He looks away, frowning into space.

She sighs. “It's hard to acknowledge, Potter, because they're your _parents_ , but the truth is that you _really_ only miss those that you have _actually known_ in your life. _They_ are actually the ones that you crave to get back once they're snatched away from you. Your love for people that you've never even _seen_ in your life, can't—” She winces, cutting herself off, as a jet of pain shoots up her left palm — bursting into a pool of searing _agony_ as it reaches her shoulder.

“You–you need something for that, Parkinson,” she hears him mumble. She simply nods, gnashing her teeth as the pain grows in intensity. “Okay, okay... calm _down_ , alright?” he commands, sounding panicked. “I'm going to cut off a portion of your shirt, okay?”

She _does_ feel like stopping him, but all the sound she is capable of producing is practically a series of broken, breathless _whimpers_ , so she refrains.

She hears him murmur a _Diffindo_ , and shivers when icy cold air comes in contact with her bloodied shoulder. She faintly notices how he's strategically scooped out cloth along with the left sleeve of her shirt, making it seem as if the garment is merely off-sleeved.

“Here,” he murmurs, positioning the bottle of Dittany to let a drop—

“ _Potter_!” she shrieks, blindly reaching for something to clutch her hands in, as fire erupts from where the git has dribbled that sordid potion on her wound. Her hand finds the front of his shirt, and she, fists it.

“Hush,” he shushes her, lightly patting the elbow of her injured arm. “We're there, just a _few_ more drops—”

She shrieks again, screwing her eyes shut as her body twists in response to the wave of stinging pain rolling through her. Then he cradles her; wrapping his arms around her waist — which seems like a _peculiar_ action, really, because she can't feel his _hands_ against her back — and his chin has come to sit on the top of her head while he murmurs, whispers, _soothes_ —

“ _Relax_ , it's done… we're done. You're _healed_ , Parkinson, there's no more _pain_ — we're _good_ , yeah? You–you are _fine_. Are you listening? Can you _hear_? Do you _understand_? Parkinson? You are _okay_.”

Then she shudders, gasping for breath, and — crying, _actually weeping_ in this almost-not- _quite_ -embrace of her arch-enemy.

“Shh,” he mumbles, a hesitant hand patting her wound. She is ready to flinch at the touch, but it doesn't sting. _Obviously_ it doesn't sting, she thinks with a mental roll of eyes. She has just gone through a _painful_ Dittany treatment to make it _stop_ stinging, after all! “Are you okay?”

She nods against his neck, taking a deep breath—

And freezes. 

_Citrus_ has invaded her senses.

_That_ jerks her out of her frenzy, and she wrenches herself away from the flustered wizard. He looks so _lost_ when he stares at her that she almost feels that her coldness to this man is unnecessary. He is, after all, a _really_ compassionate human being who has had so many loved ones in these twenty years of his life that Pansy can't even hope to garner in next _forty_ of hers. _Almost_.

He sighs, shaking his head, and proceeds to fasten the cap of Dittany back on; Pansy notices that the _cap_ is _still_ in his hand. She clears her throat.

He looks up, sharply, as if he'd been _waiting_ for her to—

She clears her throat again, and looks away with a frown; she has never done well with gratitude. “Thank you,” she says, her voice practically croaking because of her _awfully_ parched throat.

He makes an amused sound at the back of his throat, which causes her to narrow her eyes at him. “What?” she snaps, immediately grimacing at the quality of her voice.

He shrugs, but _somehow_ — she can't _fathom_ how — she feels as if it is _feigned_. “Appreciation from you is a rare expression. I'm surprised, is all,” he says, tossing her a smug smirk over his shoulder while he walks away to place the Essence of Dittany back.

She snorts, then. “Yeah? Consider yourself lucky, then?”

His head snaps back to her and there's this _weird_ sort of exasperation spread over his features that she actually _flinches_. “ _Very_ lucky, _indeed_ , Parkinson.”

She scowls at the back of his black-haired head. “Yes, you _are_.”

He hums in response, but by the way the muscles of his back are _rippling_ through the light-blue linen shirt he's wearing, she knows he has an idea that she's going to fucking _fight_ if he doesn't fucking _stomach_ her thankfulness!

“So… your father?” he asks casually, while he takes time with manually putting the potion vial back in its place. “That's your reason for joining us.”

Pansy snorts. “Haven't you been _listening_?” she barks out, rage simmering beneath her skull because — he's right. Potter's _right_ and her father _is_ the reason why she wants Voldemort dead. But no one has ever known that. And she isn't about to make _him_ her most loyal confidant, either. “It's Draco. He's brought us all here. We're here for him.”

“Say, if he _wouldn't_ have”—she can hear _bitterness_ in his tone — _what the fuck_? — “then you would have sided by You-Know-Who, and plotted _my_ murder?”

She sighs. “Don't mince my words, Potter. I told you I was _scared_ in that moment when I didn't care for your life.” She shakes her head, thinking about the shuddering, weeping mess that she'd become in Blaise's arms in the dungeons, later that day. “ _Stop_ holding a grudge against that.”

She looks back at her now healed shoulder. She grimaces when her eyes fall on the grime-laden strap of her poor bra. There's this filthy mixture of dried blood — _a brick red_ — and gelatinous streams of Essence of Dittany — _a deep, ugly yellow_ — spread over the entire area, and she feels light-headed at the sight of it. Well, not _quite_ , because this is _her_ body. But, she _would_ have if it was someone _else's_. 

“Need help, there?”

She jumps. Potter's standing not a _foot_ away from her, his lips twisted into an amused smirk while his eyes pointedly look at the bloodied patch of her skin before looking back at her face. She frowns, and contemplates how _blissful_ it would be if someone else casts the _Scourgify_ for her, and she doesn't have to _look_ at that grotesque picture again, before giving him a single, jerky nod.

He takes another step ahead, reducing the distance further, and she _gasps_.

“What?” he murmurs, his eyes scanning her face with that _perfectly_ feigned innocence, and she can't understand what the _hell_ is he bloody _playing_ at, without even _touching_ his wand, until—

The flat of his index finger runs over the filth near her collarbone, and he—

_Merlin_ , he _hooks_ the bloody _finger_ under the strap of her _bra_ , and she gasps again, and—

“Potter,” she whispers, breathless, “what are you _doing_?”

“I've understood,” he breathes out. She can see her reflection — her _blown_ , wide eyes — in his specs and _through_ his specs, in his _eyes_. “Why a seventeen-year old girl would have asked for the death of a fellow seventeen-year old boy. I've never held a grudge against _that_ , Pansy.”

His irises are thin, _sheer_ rings of dark, deep, _forest_ bloody _green_ around his pupils, and her breath's been _knocked_ the fuck _out_ of her lungs as he leans in, and—

“What?” she breathes back, and she doesn't _know_ what the _fuck_ she's doing, but she places her right palm flat over his frantically thudding heart. Maybe she's been away from intimate human contact for too long?

His mouth opens, tongue flicking over his lower, pink, _plump_ lip, and—

“I'm sorry,” he murmurs, and—

She is _pretty_ sure that she meets him halfway.

His lips are demanding, desperate, and they freaking _suck_ the _life_ out of her. Only, _she_ does it back.

She's grabbing him by his shirt, and hooking a leg around his thighs, hence pulling him closer; they're _meshed_ together, when—

His teeth scrape against her lower lip, and her _entire body_ bloody _vibrates_ , and—

She pushes him away with a deep, gasping intake of breath. He's _still_ way too _close_ — not even a _foot_ away, the _bastard_! — and all she can inhale is a _burst_ of damn _citrus_!

“What?” she intones with the next gasp leaving her.

He smiles, and — it is so _tentative_ that is _stupid_ — eyes never leaving hers, he rakes a hand through his _always_ tousled hair, and—

“I'm sorry about your parents,” he states as if he's stating the weather, and she—

She wants to smack him in his _face_ , but she lets out a startled laugh instead. “ _What_?” And she needs to expand her vocabulary, but—

He shifts, his hands coming to brace against the bed, caging her. “And this is for being a judgemental _arse_ about you Slytherins.”

She takes in a stuttering breath, and, “You've bloody _lost it_ ,” she murmurs before he latches back onto her wet lips, and—

She pushes him away, _again_.

" _What_ the actual _fuck_ , Potter?" she gasps against his lips, and his finger — yes, the one which previously has been sodding _trapped_ between her _skin_ and _strap_ of her _bra_ — comes up between their _awfully_ close faces and he tosses his glasses off.

"And _this_ "— she actually _gulps_ at the low, growling timbre of his voice — "is for new beginnings," he finishes before fusing their lips together again, and she's _just_ about to push him away, _just_ about to _stop_ this bloody _madness_ , but—

Draco is murmuring something into Granger's ear which is making her cheeks put tomatoes to shame, and Blaise's head is in Weaslette's lap while her fingers trace the contours of his cheekbones, and Padma Patil is freaking doubling in laughter at the Weasel's malfunctioning jokes, and—

Pansy pauses as the images flash through her head.

There _has_ to be a fucking _inner monologue_ of Potter's governing his actions, _there has to be_ , because — otherwise? Otherwise this is so _absurd_ that it is not even _funny_!

But, _but_ , Pansy _is_ going to kiss him back because she _needs_ to. Because their world has been shoved _so_ off its axis over these past three years, that this weirdness they're causing isn't going to sum up to more than mere _collateral damage_ in the long run. And collateral damage, she can deal with.

Because—

He's right. 

Amidst this all, they deserve a shot at new beginnings. _She_ does, at least. Even if it involves _Potter_ , of all people.

She _does_ make a mental note of querying him about this 'inner monologue' — you know, to ensure that they're on the same page, and this isn't a freakish, impromptu _Bombarda_ happening in his _head_!

_Then_ she kisses him back. With abandon.

* * *

**THE END**  


**Author's Note:**

> ...the escalation level is _really_ terrific, I know. But, you'd have to agree with Pansy and believe that you need to know 'Harry’s inner monologue', if you wish to attain clarity over what happened.
> 
> xoxo,  
> MereWhispers!


End file.
